At Poppy’s | edwin morgan
Karen you know this is quite improper.
These eylashes were on my dressing-table.
It’s no use telling me you never saw them.
If you’re after Monsieur Jack you can forget it,
he likes the natural look. I know you took them,
I’m not accusing you of anything, just
telling you. You’re such a slut in waiting.
Fishnets all right, but fishnets with finesse, dear.
Hunks have their niceties, they may be shyish—
yes, laugh, it gives you away that, raucous—
I said real men are sensitive to details,
and if you have to be an understudy
then you must study. Just because you’re younger
you won’t be jumping rungs, that I can tell you.
Get yourself together, get some nous. Darling
don’t sulk. A quick pout sometimes can work wonders
but I assure you permanent creases downward
from the mouth are death, a lower lip thrusting
upward death plus one, so re-lax. Now I’ve
got my eyes back I can sweep you up and
down and well, if you simply stopped cultivating
those passé sultry slouches you’d have something.
Books, that’s it, book on head, walkabout.
What’s this old thing, a Trollope, that’ll suit you—
I can’t read titles, never mind, here take it.
Now let me see you walk. The calves! The shoulders!
Tell your body who’s the boss. Do it!
Forward. Round. Mind the table! Back. Smiling!
Don’t look as if you’d prunes that hadn’t worked yet.
Carriage! That’s what we want, like in the old days.
Carriage, my dear, as if you’d melt a ballroom
merely by flowing down the stairs in satin,
at the last step twitching a few lightnings
with one hand as you show a shoe, hide it,
and take the floor. Karen you’re not listening!
I keep a good house here. What do they pay for—
sleaze queens? You don’t want class you’re not for Poppy’s.
Pick up the book. Once more. Don’t strut. Walking!